


The Nitty Gritty

by Anonymous



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Crack, Gen, Headshotting, White House, White House Visit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-05
Updated: 2018-11-05
Packaged: 2019-08-19 05:09:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16528010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Tom Wilson is thrilled for the Capitals' White House visit following their Stanley Cup Championship. Unfortunately, things don't go quite as planned.





	The Nitty Gritty

**Author's Note:**

> We're honored to have gained over 100 followers, and this is our gift to you all. Kachow.

“Who’s ready to see the orange troll?” Oshie yells. The whole bus cheers, and everybody claps. Tom joins in, getting up from his seat to bump his chest against Kuznetsov’s. He’s excited, of course. It’s a momentous occasion; it’s not every day that one gets to meet the President of the United States. The guys are messing around, Vrana and Burakovsky screaming something about his tiny hands. Tom feels something stirring underneath, something primal. It’s a feeling he hasn’t felt in a long time, not since the playoffs, not since - well. He can only hope that he’s wrong, that the time isn’t now. Not in front of the orange man. Not Gritty - Donald Trump, Tom’s hero. 

Tom leaned his head against the cool bus window and inhaled deeply. He was having trouble controlling his anxiety over meeting the President, but tried to come across as calm and collected to his teammates. He reached up to the collar of his shirt and tugged at his tie to loosen it a bit, feeling his heart rate quicken as they neared the White House. Tom remembered watching all the presidential debates and really resonating with his policies. His absolute disregard for his opponents and citizens of his country meshed perfectly with Tom’s disregard for his opponents on the ice.

The bus barreled through the crowded streets of Washington D.C., past the giant crowds gathered on street-corners, decked out in shirts and jerseys of their favorite players. There were countless signs and flags, and of course phones being raised to record the momentous occasion. The visit to the White House garnered almost as many people as the Stanley Cup parade had, and as Tom looked out to the sea of red, he felt the butterflies in his stomach rise once again. It felt deeper this time, stronger than it ever had before. Only when the bus pulled into the White House parking lot did this mysterious anxiety subside, replaced with the nervous and exciting energy of getting to meet Trump.

Tom could hear the excited cheering of the crowd as he and the rest of the team stepped off the bus. Even with all the noise, he could still hear what sounded like someone screaming for hemorrhoid cream through the earpiece of the secret service agent next to him. The man, dressed impeccably in a well fitted suit and black sunglasses, not a hair out of place, remained as stoic as ever as he led the team through the back entrance.

He walks down the red carpet, laid down under Ovi’s request and under pressure by Putin, with the rest of his team. Tom isn’t sure why Ovi and Putin are so close; he asked once if Ovi was a Russian spy, but his captain just winked at him and told him to focus on what’s important, which Tom assumes means physical violence. He smiles and waves to the fans, high-fiving some of them as he walks past, until finally he reaches the doors. He enters the White House, feeling a sense of awe come over him; he’s finally here, in the second most important building in America (Capital One Arena being number one, of course). There’s a strange smell in the air, something that he thinks smells vaguely of spray tan, but he’s never gotten one before, so he isn’t quite sure. It’s a smell that most would describe as putrid, but to him, it’s comforting. 

Tom, along with the rest of his teammates, gathered in the foyer. He took a moment to take in his surroundings; expensively decorated with white marble floors, white walls, and paintings depicting previous White House residents adorned the historic building. The flash of a camera pulled him out of his trance and suddenly he was hyper aware of the media personnel scattered around them. An ethereal voice garbled in his ear “Hello, Tom.” Tom quickly scanned the room of people around him, nerves bubbling under his skin, searching for the source of the voice. He shrugged it off, thinking it was a figment of his imagination. A man called over the hum of the crowd, and motioned for everyone to follow him to where the congratulatory speech by Trump himself would take place. As Tom took his first steps forward, he felt his headshot gene involuntarily flex and send a tingle up his spine. 

Stepping carefully into the famed oval office, and making sure not to trip over any of the camera men’s abundant wires, Tom was overwhelmed by what he saw. Just a few feet away, across the glossy marble floor and persian rugs, stood Donald Trump. The orange skinned man was standing gracelessly, slumped over and in a tie too short and too tight for his turkey-like neck. His flow - marvelously yellow and fluffy, combed over to perfection. His arm is slung over Melania, who by comparison was elegant and beautiful, her skin pulled taut and her facelift looking masterfully crafted. A million thoughts are racing through Tom’s mind, his breathing getting faster than his rate of suspension. Backstrom comes over to check on him, worry visible in the Swede’s face, but Tom can only wave him away. He has to deal with this on his own. 

“I want to thank you all for coming,” Trump begins, in his usual nasally tone.  “This was a yuge win for me, and I’m sure you are all honored to be in my presence.”  The group murmured in confirmation as Trump began to ramble on, taking out various charts that depicted his chances of winning the Stanley Cup.  As Trump spoke, Tom was transfixed on Trump’s gloriously plump head. It bobbed and shook as the aging man struggled to deliver his narcissism riddled speech.  As the speech wore on, Tom began to feel that same stirring feeling he felt when he was on the bus. He began to tune out what Trump was saying, as sweat trailed down his back.  And that’s when he heard it; the voice from the hallway, a voice he was hoping he would never hear again. “Tom,” it called from the distance, “It is time. Time to repay your debts.”

_ Gritty _ . No - it couldn’t be. They’d had an agreement, yes; the Stanley Cup ring on his finger means he can’t forget about that, but why here?  _ No _ , he thinks as loud as he can, hoping Gritty can somehow hear him. He ignores the voice, following his teammates into the handshake line. Ovi is at the front, the alternates behind him, and Tom is near the back of the line. As he stands there, waiting, he feels his nerves begin to rise again. It’s almost time for him to meet his idol, to meet Trump, and shake his hand, and - 

“Take out Air Force One. You have five minutes,” Gritty says, cutting into his thoughts. Tom feels a sort of tension brewing inside of him, the same kind he feels when he’s on the ice and someone’s head is nearby, and -  _ no, no, not here! _

Ovechkin grabs Trump’s hand firmly, the pair whispering joyously between each other. Tom can only wonder what they’re discussing, but if there comes news of NHL-related collusion in the White House, well… After him is Nicke, of course, who is never far behind his captain. He moves away quickly after the handshake, making sure to subtly wipe his hand on his suit jacket. The line moves far more quickly than Tom can anticipate, and he finds himself shaking - whether in fear or excitement he can’t tell, but when he looks down he can see his entire body trembling almost as intensely as one of his headshot victims. He watches as the line shrinks; Holtby, Kuzy, Eller, Orlov, Carlson all pass through, and only a few more people are before him. There’s a buzzing in Tom’s ears, a frequency that can’t be turned down, and as he clutches his head in his hands he gets another message from the other orange being.

“Don’t fuck it up.” Gritty whispers to him maliciously, the voice reverberating around Tom’s mostly hollow noggin. 

As the distance between Tom and the President shrinks, the murmurs and clicks of the cameras fade away as his focus zeroes in on his target. The ringing in his ears grows louder, and he’s on high alert. Andre Burakovsky is the last teammate in line before him, and as he steps up to Trump, Andre turns around and throws Tom a wide grin.  _ Hurry the fuck up you dumb Swede _ , Tom thinks, blood rising to his already spinning head. He had to admit he always thought Andre was a couple fries short of a happy meal, and right now he was pissing him off. Andre stepped to the side after shaking Trump’s hand, and time seemed to slow down. 

The only thing Tom could hear as he steps up to the President is the blood rushing to his head. Trump reached his tiny hand forward, and Tom did everything in his power to resist the power of Gritty. As he grasped the President’s hand, he froze, his eyes dilating, and before he could stop himself, he felt his head lurch forward the way it has so many times before. His head slammed against Trump’s with a loud  _ THWACK _ that resonated around the Oval Office. Trump’s body went flying like a puck through the cold air, crashing through the picturesque windows and out on to the front lawn. That was the last thing Tom remembered seeing before everything went black.

Tom feels a powerful force hit him from behind, and his body drops to the ground. He tries to look up and see what had happened, but all he can see is black. A large, shadowed figure appears, and as it draws closer, Tom can see the unmistakable rotund shape and messy orange fur - Gritty. Gritty comes closer, until all Tom can see is its face. Gritty’s googly eyes spin around, stopping for a moment as they peer right into Tom’s soul. “You did well, Tom,” it says. Suddenly, Gritty fades away, and with it goes the blackness. Tom can see again, and he’s still in the Oval Office. Several large, burly men are on top of him, almost as though he’s in a scrum on the ice, but he’s not wearing skates, and these aren’t hockey players; they’re Secret Service members. The room is loud and chaotic, his teammates being ushered away by the suited men while others yell at each other to contain him - contain  _ Tom _ . He thinks back to a few minutes ago, how he couldn’t help himself, and knows that he must check on Trump. He fears that Gritty’s message meant the worst, and soon enough, he’ll be in a high-security federal prison with no way of knowing what happened to his idol. Tom starts to thrash, trying to escape their grip so he can check on his president, and they  only press harder. He isn’t strong enough. He feels like he’s being treated like an animal, not deserving of compassion or sympathy. This isn’t how people should be treated, well, unless you’re that rat Brad Marchand. 

Tom could feel hands envelop his body, dragging him out of the Oval Office. The handcuffs cut uncomfortably into his wrists as two straight faced Secret Service agents gripped his arms tightly and shoved him towards the police car that awaited his arrival outside the doors that the team had walked through not an hour earlier. He was roughly shoved into the back of the car, and the door slammed behind him soon after. He craned his neck around to catch a glimpse of the now ex President’s lifeless body splayed across the White House front lawn and sighed. Tom turned back around to face forward, and hung his head in despair. The police car’s siren sounded as the car sped off to take Tom to where he’d be locked up for his foreseeable future. 

\---

With news spreading around the league of Tom Wilson’s assassination of President Donald Trump and the subsequent overthrow of the U.S. government by Communist leader Gritty,  _ The Athletic _ sat down with some of the players at the 2019 NHL Media Day to see how they felt about the national incident.  

When asked, Washington Capitals captain and former teammate of the suspect Alexander Ovechkin responded with one quick remark, before refusing to answer any more questions on the topic. 

_ “When team went to White House, I remind him not to be stupid.  But what he do? Be stupid.” _

When interviewing Pittsburgh Penguins team captain Sidney Crosby, he proceeded to dance around the subject, saying, _“You know, uuhhhh we just gotta keep gettin’ pucks to the net.”_

He then fastened a butterfly jibbit onto one of his crocs, seemingly to calm his nerves.

The NHL’s up and coming superstar, Edmonton Oilers’ Connor McDavid was also interviewed about the tragedy. He seemed to ponder for a moment, in his usually quiet disposition, before sneezing loudly.

_ “No comment.” _ was all McDavid had to offer before he had to leave for practice. Sources say, however, there was no practice being held, and that McDavid felt uncomfortable and wanted to leave. 

Carolina Hurricanes defenseman Jaccob Slavin had a more personal take on the matter.  _ “I think that for an NHL player to actually go out and kill someone, in cold blood, especially knowing that there are children watching live - it’s just beyond wrong _ ,” he told Hurricanes reporters.  _ “I have no words. Think about what Jesus would say. He would absolutely not stand for this. No one, not even Trump, deserves to be so violently slaughtered by that - well, I’m a good Christian man, so I’m not going to say it. Wilson can be forgiven, of course, but it’s not our place to do so. He’s in Jesus’ hands now. Amen.” _

Last, but certainly not least, the Boston Bruins’ feisty left winger Brad Marchand was stopped and asked about the incident. Marchand has a history of playing a dirty game, and so it seems his response was not particularly surprising.

_ “Eh,” _ he said, breathing closely into the mic,  _ “I thought it was a clean hit.” _

Philadelphia Flyers defenseman Shayne Gostisbehere, when asked about his thoughts on the matter involving his team’s former mascot and current Temporary Dictator of the U.S., Gritty, said  _ “I mean, honestly, anything’s better than Trump, I guess. I thought Communism was bad, but so far Gritty’s already done a lot of good for this country, and it’s only been a few days. Maybe we should be thanking Wilson. Wait, forget I said that. Murder is wrong, kids, even if it does make the world a better place. Wait.” _

\---------

Tom was lying in his cold cot in his cell, with a single threadbare sheet as the only luxury that he was allotted. He had used more brain power to think about his actions of the previous day than he had ever used before. His head ached from the mental exertion. Tom closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, trying to calm his thoughts.

He opened his eyes and scanned his surroundings - dark gray walls, scarce lighting that emitted a foreboding touch to his already depressing surroundings, and iron bars that kept him trapped there. He thought his mind was playing tricks on him when he saw a mass of matted orange fluff descend from the ceiling. Gritty completed his acrobatic routine (that was reminiscent of Pink’s “Glitter In The Air” 2010 Grammy performance, if he said so himself) and appeared directly in front of him.

“Was it worth it, Tom?”  Gritty asked, his eyes looking in two different directions, neither of which was anywhere close to where Tom actually was.  “You were so desperate to win the Stanley Cup that you would do anything, even if it meant sacrificing the rest of your life.  You couldn’t just let time take its course. Instead, I made sure the Flyers wouldn’t win this year, and ensured that the Capitals would. ”

“But why this? I would have done anything else,” Tom cried, “Giving up my life as a Cap wasn’t supposed to be part of the deal!”

“You may not be a Capital anymore,” Gritty said, booping Tom’s nose, “But you’ll be a capital murderer forever.”

**Author's Note:**

> Follow us on [tumblr](http://www.klobsquad.tumblr.com) for more blessedt content.
> 
> Kachow be with you.


End file.
